


Bar Fights and Bromance

by therogueheart



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: And some Italian for dinner, Bar fights, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humor, M/M, Napoleon is Done, Napoleon just wants a Scotch, No Angst, No Smut, No Spoilers, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-graphic fighting, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Slurs, Small Dog Syndrome, Soft Boys, bar fighting, joking, light Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therogueheart/pseuds/therogueheart
Summary: Everywhere they go,someonewants to pick a fight with the big Russian.Can be read as gen-fic. Mostly crack but slight use of the slur 'fairy'.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 142





	Bar Fights and Bromance

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains a non-graphic fight with no detailed violence or injury.  
> This work does contain use of the homophobic slur 'fairy'.  
> Spasiba; thank you.

To anyone else, Illya’s silence would appear to be submission. Acquiescing to the goading of their company and the underwhelming but effective insults thrown like baseballs. 

Napoleon knows better. Napoleon knows Illya. 

“Gentleman. Far be it from me to put a dampener on a night of fun, but you really ought to pool together to culminate a single brain cell and reconsider provoking our mutual interest any further” he sighed at them over the rim of his tumbler, canting his head. 

“Defending your boyfriend, _fairy_? He can’t stick up for himself?” One of them questioned. Napoleon thought that the man looked rather like an unfortunate bulldog. Dropped on his face as a child, perhaps. Or maybe his Mother’s womb had walls like iron and she'd squashed his features as she pushed forth her disappointment to the world. 

“Oh dear” he murmured sadly into the amber liquid. That would about do it. He rolled his wrist to check the face of his watch and glanced across at his partner. He knew the tells perfectly. The white fire that blazed in those oceanic eyes, the tap-tap-tap of his index finger, barely concealed in the crook of his elbow. The minute flex of his jaw as he pressed his teeth together. 

“Do try to leave the bar intact, Peril. I’d quite like another scotch” he announced to his partner, a jest but in turn, permission. It was a recent development between them; a curious and fragile thing. Illya would wait, chewing at the bit like a Thoroughbred in the starting gate until Napoleon set him free. It didn’t happen always, but often enough. 

“Plenty of other bars in street” the Russian breathed back at him, widening his stance. Deft fingers curled around his wrist, slipping the watch off with practised ease. Napoleon held his own wrist out soundlessly, letting Illya slide the worn leather around his skin. One too many cracked watch-faces or torn straps had taught the Russian that it was best to shed the treasure before a fight. 

“None quite as nice as this” he countered, leaning back against the bar, idle and unconcerned. Their tormentors looked puzzled and cautious, but shook out their own arms, murmuring words of encouragement to each other as they readied themselves. 

“Don’t fret, lads. He’s a big fucker but he’s a _fairy_. They’re all dumb. Fairies are _always_ all talk until you hit ‘em” one hissed to his companion, and Napoleon watched Illya’s smile take on a shark-like, sharp quality. Napoleon always marvelled at people’s stupidity; how they took one look at Illya and decided he was just the bear to poke until he bit. 

Frankly, even Napoleon had been apprehensive the first time they’d met, all the way back when in Berlin. Watching Illya tear the back off the car had given him vivid imagery of his own fragile neck being snapped like a coffee stirrer. 

“Wonders never cease” he informed himself as he sipped his drink once more, watching Illya settle himself opposite them. 

“Who first?” The Russian drawled at them, and the men jostled reluctantly amongst themselves before one stepped forwards. Illya bat aside the punch he threw almost lazily and reached forwards, grasping the man by the throat and lifting him clean off the ground. The squirming attacker was tossed aside like a used rag as another man charged forwards, and Napoleon watched the unfolding entertainment passively. 

“You know, I think I’m feeling Italian for dinner tonight” Napoleon mused as Illya knocked two men together like disobedient children. 

“ _Da_. Italian sounds good” the Russian agreed, not even out of breath. 

One tried to shatter a beer bottle over Illya’s head but wasn’t quite tall enough, and the glass splintered over his shoulder, drenching the Russian’s shirt in beer. Illya’s head turned, looking over his shoulder at the stunned man. Napoleon sucked in a pitying breath as the man was dragged forwards, and turned to the barman with an apologetic smile. 

“I’d say not all Russians are like this, but…” he remarked ruefully. The man seemed too distracted by the fight to respond. Napoleon turned back to the fight and tipped his head. “You have a little blood on your face” he announced, and the Russian paused where he had a man in a twisted headlock, looking up at him with a frown. 

“Here?” He asked, swiping at his jaw. 

“No, no. Up a little. No, to the– For Heaven’s _sake_ , come here”. Illya abandoned petting at his face in favour of leaning closer, head tipped obligingly so that Napoleon could stretch forwards and wipe away the incriminating speck from Illya’s cheek. The man still caught under his arm continued to writhe, looking perplexed at his current predicament. 

_"Spasibo"_ the Russian murmured, casting Napoleon a gentle, small smile before he went back to wrenching his victim around like a ragdoll. The fight was over fairly quickly, and the Russian straightened once the last man had rolled groaning to the floor, dusting off his arms and picking at his sodden shirt with an unimpressed frown. 

“Is it height?” Illya wondered, meandering his way back to the bar. “Men always want to fight. Is baffling”. 

“Small dog syndrome” Napoleon offered, holding out Illya’s beer. The Russian took a sip and settled back into his seat, looking for all intents and purposes like he’d just come back from the bathroom and not a five-to-one fight. Napoleon reached out and carefully fixed a lock of blond hair that had fallen across Illya’s temple. 

“What do small dogs have to do with fighting men?” Illya asked after a pause, and Napoleon cast him a light smile. 

“I’ll explain it over Italian”. 


End file.
